Breathing Apparatus

we get a new day
every day
until we get
the last

which day is this one?

fresh or tired
habitual or inspired
we truly do not know
the greatest mystery
living
in that
next
breath

Illustration by Elizabeth Shippen Green
from THE MANSION by Henry Van Dyke, 1911

Rumi for Breakfast

Feeling a need for nourishment that would permeate every cell, I opened The Essential Rumi this morning, with hopes of feeding my soul.

With translations by Coleman Barks and John Moyne, Rumi’s words always satiate.  A master chef, indeed.

Here’s an excerpt from “Father Reason.”

“The universe is a form of divine law,
your reasonable father.

When you feel ungrateful to him,
the shapes of the world seem mean and ugly.

Make peace with that father, the elegant patterning,
and every experience will fill with immediacy.

Because I love this, I am never bored.
Beauty constantly wells up, a noise of spring water
in my ear and in my inner being.

Tree limbs rise and fall like the ecstatic arms
of those who have submitted to the mystical life.

Leaf sounds talk together like poets
making fresh metaphors. The green felt cover slips,
and we get a flash of the mirror underneath.

Think how it will be when the whole thing
is pulled away! I tell only one one-thousandth
of what I see, because there’s so much doubt everywhere.

The conventional opinion of this poetry is,
it shows great optimism for the future.

But Father Reason says,
No need to announce the future!
This now is it. This. Your deepest need and desire
is satisfied by the moment’s energy
here in your hand…”

Sand Mandala – photo courtesy of Wonderlane

The Toll

after
a ten-hour work day
between
flossing teeth
and rinsing Tupperware
there was
a moment
glowing golden
evening
a low lit living room
tidy
first load of laundry
folded
full moon outside
rising
Jeb in the shower
dripping
“Mom, can you hand me my towel?”
the Bohemian in his chair
smiling
a mouthful of cashew fruit
juicing
Sudoku “Medium”
sharpened pencil (no eraser)
in his hands

oh the lunacy
and all the scurrying
my monkey mind
keeping time
with all these
beautiful
and ridiculous
earthlings
ling
a ling
ring
a ding
somewhere
there must be
oh please
a bell
that’s waking
us

in my room
there reverberates
one wet and slippery eight-year old
one puzzle solving, fruit-loving man
and soft light
shining warmly
across the maple wood floor
resonating
settling
ringing me
home

 

photo courtesy of Nomadic Lass